


I Want A Meaning (From the Back of My Broken Hand)

by ativanpire



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, no beta we die like ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 22:33:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ativanpire/pseuds/ativanpire
Summary: Diego is stuck and just going through the motions.





	I Want A Meaning (From the Back of My Broken Hand)

**Author's Note:**

> BIG TW FOR SUICIDAL IDEATION. very small cw for shift from third to second person pov midway and overuse of parentheses. even smaller apology for posting more self-indulgent emo bullshit.

He gets behind the wheel and he drives (no seatbelt.) Drives to the other side of town where the few working streetlights cast a sickly green and the sidewalk is gritty with broken glass under his boots (they crunch like splintered bones underfoot.) How many lives saved justify his existence? (How many will it take to make him feel whole?)

There's a stretch of road on the way back to the gym (not home, not quite) that's dark and slick with a wicked curve. The fresh pavement feels slippery as ice under his worn tires and when he's tired (when isn't he tired nowadays?) he almost doesn't see the reflectors manifest/appear/there's a magician word here out of the darkness until he's almost at the curve. Just two lanes, yellow reflectors shimmering and vanishing like ghosts, and the dark mass of the concrete wall behind the curve. He could gun it (he doesn't.)

His body hurts (physical pain is only temporary), a reminder of his own personal missions (you matter, you matter). He cleans and bandages his cuts, stitches himself up where needed, ices his bruises, and ignores the whole body ache deep in his bones (the one that doesn't go away.)

Sleep. It's twilight dark in the basement even in the middle of the day. Drift in and out of time, in and out of consciousness (peel back years and wake up shaking.) The mattress is soft, worn. Somewhere else is a hard twin bed facing the window (this bed faces the door.) Wake up head spinning trying to orient yourself (this bed faces North.)

Hold a mop, clean the floors (like you're cleaning the streets?), smile at the regulars. Smile like you used to smile at the cameras. Tonight, you can go home to broken bones and sailing knives (real men use knives.) And when you've had your fill, you can disappear again (and isn't that what you really want?). Get into your car with the threadbare tires and your eyes already heavy as the rest of you and maybe, just maybe, you'll pretend you can't see the curve coming up ahead (plausible deniability.) Maybe this time, you won't see the reflectors in time (maybe this time you'll gun it.)


End file.
